


Glimpse of Dawn’s Splendour (2/2)

by shutupeccles



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupeccles/pseuds/shutupeccles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind/between scenes of 4.02<br/>Merlin survives the Dorocha and fears The Question: <i>How?</i> A sudden <strike>heartless</strike> request to look after Guinevere during the <strike>deliciously slashy</strike> campfire scene has a <strike>deceptively slashy</strike> ulterior motive. One character’s sacrifice throws a shadow over the relationship it was intended to preserve. Dawn follows the darkest hour.<br/>Merlin's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glimpse of Dawn’s Splendour (2/2)

_Painfully cold_  
   
Asking ‘why didn’t the Dorocha kill me?’ will merely draw attention to the impossibility of Merlin's existence. He is terrified beyond belief, struggling to move outside involuntary shivering, and desperate to satisfy destiny. Developing humorously distracting answers to incriminating questions is not a priority.  
   
Arthur argues with everyone about getting Merlin back to Camelot as quickly as possible, then apologises and blames himself as Percival drapes Merlin over the horse. Merlin pleads to go with them, yet Arthur never questions why Merlin's behaviour contradicts those typically associated with being dead. Perhaps he’s determined to send Merlin away before anyone thinks to ask.  
   
The single squeeze to Merlin's arm feels like a lingering kiss goodbye. It isn’t enough to warm Merlin's body but it sets a spark inside his soul.  
   
*~~~*  
   
Merlin needs to invent a plausible explanation for his recovery in the Valley of the Fallen Kings because Arthur isn’t always as ignorant as he lets others believe. Nothing comes to mind as he rides beside Lancelot. Pins and needles pick and scrape the inside of his bones as he continues to heal. The Villia could only do so much. The magic of Emrys must do the rest. It feels as though he is being knitted back together. A second Dorocha attack so close to the first could unravel him.  _Should have asked Kilgarrah to clear a path to the Isle of the Blessed, he seemed to enjoy chasing Dorocha – but then I’d have to defend him and Arthur from each other. Caught in a tangled web I continue to weave…_  
   
He flexes his knuckles as the irritating scratch subsides. The loss of pain worries him. He feels less human somehow. Will the Cailleach accept his soul?

Will Arthur?

*~~~*  
   
Lancelot breaks the news of Merlin's survival while Merlin tethers their horses and continues searching for an answer to The Question.  
   
Arthur’s relieved half-laugh as Merlin appears feels like ‘ _Welcome home_ ’, yet he heads for Lancelot instead of coming forward to greet Merlin. _Prat._ Percival, Elyan and Sir Leon crowd around Merlin, clapping him on the back and smiling cheerfully at his return. Gwaine hugs him briefly then joins the knights in leading Lancelot away, giving Merlin and Arthur a spot of privacy.  
   
Their greeting is clumsy at first. The Question (how did you survive?) remains unasked as Arthur’s hand on Merlin's head casually circles his neck and shoulder, bringing him into a masculine and protective embrace. Lips press against his temple then are quickly withdrawn. The contact is rough, rushed and genuine, leaving no doubt of the affection behind it while reminding them both that this is not the place. Arthur’s arm stays around Merlin as they join the others at the fire, Merlin pretends he needs Arthur’s support after his ordeal, but Lancelot’s smiling eyes see through their charade. Arthur deliberately sought this moment by standing aside earlier. Merlin loves him more for it.  
   
Merlin murmurs a sleeping spell while shuffling across the floor and settling to sit beside a log because The Question looms ominous on the nearest horizon. If Arthur needs to ask what manner of person survives the Dorocha, no other will hear it and he can decide what action to take without interference. The truth must be revealed in private so Arthur feels the gravity of Merlin's confession and every emotion behind it or tomorrow will mean nothing.  
   
Arthur doesn’t ask. He leans across the log so he and Merlin face each other. They could easily kiss again, should they wish. Tomorrow is inevitable. Why create a memory of what-would-have-been-if-things-were-different? Their conversation becomes stilted because every word has to count.  
   
“What is the life of a servant compared with that of a Prince?” Merlin asks, offering again to close the gateway between worlds on Arthur’s behalf.  
   
“Well, a good servant’s hard to come by.”  
   
“I’m not that good.”  
   
“True.” Arthur’s light quips signify that his emotions have slipped through their heavy yoke. Merlin recognises the shift in facial muscles as Arthur takes firm control of his thoughts and drives them backwards up the mountain of duty. “Take care of Guinevere…” The unexpected coldness of Arthur’s request is more debilitating than the Dorocha’s touch. Arthur avoids meeting Merlin’s eye and refuses to talk after hammering that wedge between them.  Merlin has promised to die for him – for **_Arthur_** , not bleeding Camelot – and Arthur asks him to make sure **_Gwen’s_** taken care of? _I’ll take care of her alright. Chain her to a pole and toss her into the sea beside the Labyrinth of Gedref..._  
   
Merlin suddenly understands. How many times have they watched each other die? Tomorrow will be the last and they sit here, caught in that same ‘No, you’re not going to die because I am!’ from years ago. Arthur used Merlin's own wits against him that time. This time he intends to use Merlin’s heart.  
   
 _He’s shutting down so he can do this, making me think he’s a dollop-headed clot pole of a pratful ass so I’ll let him go through with it._  
   
Merlin makes no attempt to chip away at Arthur’s icy façade and silence takes hold. One syllable out of place could close the terrible distance between them and weaken them both. Neither sleeps, each determined to outlast the other. The darkest hour has come upon them at last. The final dawn approaches. Merlin prays it never comes.  
   
*~~~*  
   
Lancelot and Gwaine stay either side of Merlin as Sir Leon, Percival and Elyan distract the Wyvern. Arthur walks several paces ahead – _‘You still have them.’_ His stride quickens when Merlin tries to catch up – _‘I neither need nor want you.’_ Each step declares _‘Do not mourn, do not interfere.’_ The voice Arthur directs at the Cailleach is empty. Unspoken truths echo through his fortified posture as he steps toward the veil – _‘I leave behind a wealth of souls. You shall not harm a single one. I meekly step forward now, but sealed within your realm I shall fight you for eternity.’_  
   
Without bothering to mask his magic, Merlin heaves Arthur back and onto the ground where he will remain unconscious until the gate is closed. The sacrifice must be aware of the torment that awaits them, that is part of the price. Merlin senses the perverted pleasure the Cailleach gains from tormenting the living and the dead. Before he can decide which move to make, Lancelot steps into the game with an indirect smile – _‘cherish your destiny.’_ He spreads his arms as though welcoming the tormented souls. The rift seals behind him…  
   
*~~~*  
   
“Where’s Lancelot?” Arthur demands angrily. “Don’t avoid the question, Merlin. Percival said you were the only one conscious by that altar. Where—is—Lancelot?!”  
   
“He walked into the tear. I couldn’t stop him.” Merlin's voice cracks and congeals over the truth like eggs over a heated pan.  
   
Arthur’s eyes soften in sympathy but his stance remains rigid. “Pack Lancelot’s cloak and sword, lead his horse…” Then silence. No joyous or comforting ‘you’re alive, Merlin.’ Lancelot is dead, Arthur is alive, and Merlin is to blame.  
   
*~~~*  
   
Sir Leon rides beside Arthur at the head of the column. Gwaine is at the centre with Merlin, Lancelot’s horse between them. Elyan and Percival hold the rear. Arthur doesn’t seek his assistance when setting up camp, ordering him to tend to the others. They normally sleep an arm-span apart when travelling. Merlin beds down by Gwaine for this journey back to Camelot, at the insistence of Sir Leon and Elyan. Not that it matters. Merlin doesn’t sleep. Neither does Arthur. According to the knights, Arthur’s sleep routine since Merlin was struck by the Dorocha comprised of a quick doze in the saddle, occasionally closing his eyes between one pace and the next, and lying unconscious at the altar.  
   
He refuses to rest once they reach Camelot. “Merlin, deal with the horses. The rest of you, gather the Knights and relevant members of the court.”  
   
“Arthur…”  
   
“Not now Merlin. I have a ceremonial funeral pyre to organise.” Arthur avoids looking Merlin's way while striding from the stable yard.  
   
Gwaine pats Merlin on the back with a supportive cluck of his tongue. Percival and Elyan nod to him as they lift their saddle bags and follow solemn Sir Leon. _At least they don’t blame me_.  
   
*~~~*  
   
Arthur grants Merlin the honour of passing the funeral torch forward, proving that they share the blame for Lancelot’s choice. _So why can’t he talk to me?_ The Question burrows like a mole through Arthur’s silence.  
   
*~~~*  
   
“Get some rest,” Arthur gruffly tells his most loyal knights after leaving Gwen by the pyre. “You too Merlin,” he adds wearily. Merlin disobeys, follows Arthur to his chambers, and begins removing his armour without comment. Arthur’s right hand covers Merlin's. Their fingers shift and lock together as their eyes meet. Arthur’s are raw, _‘That might have been your pyre. Never put me through that again.’_  
   
“Next time you insist on sacrificing your life for Camelot, I’m staying home,” Merlin says haughtily.  
   
“If only,” Arthur huffs. The brightness of his rolling eyes and quirk of his lips make Merlin's breath stumble. Arthur plants a brief, mischievous kiss on Merlin's mouth. “Go home Merlin.”  
   
“But…” Merlin hints impishly.  
   
“Father has been asking after me since we left, and you need to get back to Gaius before he nails me to a tree for placing you in harm’s way again.”  
   
Merlin reluctantly acknowledges these truths with a nod. Arthur carefully catches Merlin’s arm before he turns away.  
   
“There will be a time when your bravery and loyalty are rewarded,” Arthur promises sincerely.  
   
Merlin nods again with a subtle smile to show he understands. For now, they mourn a dear friend. The Question fails to burn as brightly as those shared glimpses of dawn’s splendour during their darkest hours, because they both know _why_ Merlin survived. How is irrelevant.

 


End file.
